The End of a Long, Long Dream
by WallofIllusion
Summary: The second between when the bullet leaves the gun aimed at Chane and when it hits Claire in the chest feels like hours. Deathfic. Violence and swearing.


**Title**: The End of a Long, Long Dream  
**Author**: WallofIllusion  
**Fandom**: _Baccano!_  
**Characters**: Claire, Chane  
**Misc. Notes**: DEATHFIC. Violence and swearing. End-of-anime spoilers, I suppose, with some factoids from the later novels. Some factoids, however, I've only gleaned from TV Tropes (I haven't read any of the novels later than 1933, though I'm working on it!), so if there are any inaccuracies, please let me know. Beta-read by JaceyRae.

* * *

Too late, Claire saw the gunman and read the intention in his eyes. By the time he'd traced the gunman's aim, the trigger had been pulled.

The next second felt like hours.

The bullet was headed for Chane. She was looking in the opposite direction—she'd turn, surely, when she heard the gunshot, but by then it would be too late for her to dodge or block it with her knife. The shot would pass through her left lung, maybe nick her heart, and with a wound like that no hospital in the world would be able to save her. If that bullet hit her, she would certainly die.

The blood in Claire's veins turned to ice.

Then there was only one option: to push her out of the way and take the bullet himself.

But if he did that, it was just as certain that he would die.

Time flew forward in Claire's mind as if he were watching a movie. A world without him—once, he'd said he couldn't imagine such a thing. But now the images flowed into his mind. For the most part, the world simply went on without realizing his absence. But there were some who cared. Firo and the Gandors, their appearances unchanged from almost seventy-five years ago. When they heard the news, their jaws dropped. And after a few seconds or a few hours of shock, Firo ground his fist into his opposite palm, a look of utmost bitterness in his face.

_I shouldn't have sent him. He was too damn old for this hit, he's not like us, even if he _is_ Claire. I knew it. Dammit, I knew it, but I let him talk me into it like an idiot._

_Don't let him think like that_, Claire muttered in his mind. _Age has nothing to do with what's about to happen. Tell him, Luck. Or—Keith, he'll believe it if you open your mouth and say it. Or punch it into him if you have to, Berga, just don't let Firo blame himself. _

_And do me a favor and remind him that I'm Felix now, would you?_

The scene changed to a darkened room of his own house. Chane sat alone by the window, her now-white hair gleaming in the light that crept in through the slats of the blinds. Tears trailed silently down her face. She made no effort to stop them, only sat there immersed in her grief. In her eyes, he read _Claire, I miss you, I miss you, I miss you_, an emotion so strong and boundless that it only kept repeating, could have kept repeating forever.

And because her grief hurt and time was already playing this trick on him, Claire wandered down the opposite path. A world without Chane—

His heart could have stopped then and there.

This, he could not imagine.

All he saw was emptiness, a world lacking even the air for him to breathe. He could call to mind no images of himself torturing the bastard gunman to a slow death or even simply grieving. There was nothing there.

For a moment, the thought of such an utterly barren future sent an unfamiliar terror through him.

And then he felt time returning. His eyes opened wide and his arms shot out to push his wife out of the way and her name ripped out of his throat: "Chane…!"

When the bullet hit, he had the funniest thought. _This is a lethal injury? Doesn't really feel like much at all._

**x**_  
_

Chane heard the gunshot. But before she could whip around, she felt Claire's hands on her back, shoving her off-balance as he shouted her name. She recovered and turned just in time to see the spray of blood as the bullet hit her husband in the chest.

A soundless gasp tore through her throat. Claire shuddered and dropped to one knee, his hand pressed against the wound. Blood welled through his fingers almost immediately, too much blood.

…_This isn't possible…_

Chane's thoughts wouldn't move in a straight line. The gunman was still over there and she could hear the sound of his reloading but Claire, Claire was hurt badly, but it was that damned gunman who'd done it—she found herself looking from one to the other in panic, unsure what to do. And then she saw that her husband was smiling up at her, boyish as ever.

"I can wait a minute or two. Go take care of him, would you?"

She nodded as her thoughts solidified around Claire's confidence. Pulling a knife from its sheath on her thigh, she dashed towards the gunman. He didn't even have time to look up. She stabbed him first in the right shoulder and then twisted the knife as she withdrew it. Knocked backwards by the impact, the man screamed in pain and tried to writhe away. But Chane was still upon him; she stabbed through his left hand, pinning it to the ground, and then pulled out a second knife and slit his throat. She felt no pity for the inhuman wheezes he made and turned away before he bled out.

…Had that been ruthlessness, or vengefulness? It has been necessary to kill the man lest he continued to be a threat, but Chane wasn't sure her motives had been so rational. Had she let her emotions take over in her panic about—and then she saw Claire shift his body gingerly so that he was lying down, and she realized that none of that mattered. She darted back to his side and lifted him into a halfway-seated position, leaning against her lap. He looked into her eyes.

_Please. Tell me you're not dying._

He swallowed visibly and gave a bitter smile. "Sorry, Chane, I can't do that. I think I am."

She found herself shaking her head desperately as tears started in her eyes. Claire lifted his hand in order to touch her cheek, but when he saw his own blood on it he hesitated for a moment. Chane took his hand and pressed it against her cheek herself.

Claire gave a light laugh. "Sorry. It's not that I thought you were squeamish about it, I just… didn't want to mar this beautiful sight."

_How could your touch possibly harm me?_

"Aw, you're too sweet." Claire gazed at her, longing and pain in his eyes, and then gave a sigh. "I don't want to leave you, Chane…"

The tears flowed harder. There was a painful lump in her throat; she wouldn't have been able to speak even if she hadn't given up her voice. But she had seen people grieve like this before, so she knew: if she could have, she would have been sobbing audibly, strange sounds pushing their way out of her. Suddenly, for the first time, she felt a keen sense of regret that she had let her father take her voice. The thought alarmed her, but she couldn't push it away; she wished she had a voice to raise in her grief, to make it tangible and clear, to beg the attention of any merciful god who would listen.

"Don't say that, Chane…" Claire stroked her cheek. The trails of his blood felt cool as they started to dry. "You're not… lacking anything. Your silence is… beautiful… and more touching than anything else."

His voice was growing fainter. Fear gripped Chane's chest as she sensed the approach of the inevitable, and she found herself pleading irrationally. _Please, Claire, you promised me you'd never die. The first night we met, you told me that._

She'd thought he was insane at first, but the more time she'd spent with him, the more she'd started to think it was true. He wasn't an Immortal like her father; he was simply invincible, untouchable. There was no way he'd let himself be killed like this—

He gave that bitter laugh again and then drew a labored breath. "Sorry, Chane… It seems like my imagination's gotten… a bit better. I can tell what a world without me… would be like. What I can't see is… how the hell the world would go on… without you." He winced, took a moment to catch his breath. "I guess… I'm being pretty selfish, but… it just seems like… a nightmare."

_You shouldn't have done this. I'm always ready to die, for you _or_ my father—_

"I know. That's… why I say I'm selfish. I'm sorry."

Again, he struggled to breathe. Chane could tell it wasn't enough. He gave a slight cough, and blood dribbled out of the corner of his mouth. And then they looked at each other, and there was no need to voice the looming, horrible finality of this moment.

Claire's hand shifted to the back of Chane's neck. "Kiss me?" he asked, and he gave her a smile: weak, but bashful and so much younger than his ninety-five years. "You've always… taken my breath away… after all…"

Shaking, still crying, Chane let the slight pressure of his hand pull her forward so that their lips met. She wanted time to stop, right here. But instead she felt his hand go limp, felt his muscles relax. Still she did not lift her head. As long as she remained right here, she would not yet have to face a world without Claire Stanfield.


End file.
